


we rise and collide like the waves of time

by made_of_lions_and_wolves333



Series: Blended Melodies of Dark & Light [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M, Fae Magic, Mythology - Freeform, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 01:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/made_of_lions_and_wolves333/pseuds/made_of_lions_and_wolves333
Summary: “Better to stick with a familiar poison over one I don’t know.”She smiles at his remark.[ Mergana Oneshot ]





	we rise and collide like the waves of time

**i.**

A bleeding Morgana finds true refuge on Avalon, remembered everything her sister had ever said about it. Apparently, it had been a place their mother had visited often, learning its secret passageways and how to Part the Mists on command, gathering tips and stories to pass down to them one day.

The enchanted isle had saved her, healed her wounds quickly. It has its way of stabilizing her magic a bit more, even after she had practically used a serious, overwhelming spell in her moment of dying, to bring her here.

Avalon is not a slave to tatter and time. It preserves her youth, her mind, her heart.

“The High Priestess heritage,” the native Fair Folk would tell her. 

She remains there for a long while until, ironically, the very boat carrying Arthur’s body had washed itself up on the white sandy beaches. Clearly the Udines knew what it was and they had made sure the vessel had sailed over their currents safely — only for her to find it.

Morgana is strictly offended by the sight at first, and she earnestly considers conjuring the boat away herself. But strangely, that impulse wears off mid-spell, and she yields.

The key fact here is that she’s alive and Arthur is dead, right in front of her. It turns into a dull sense of victory.

Avalon’s decides who was welcome ashore, and who is not. Many mortal sailors far and wide have searched for the isle, to claim as theirs. Whoever is in the know, all wanted Avalon for its healing roots, its wood and fruits, its vast earthly jewels, or its alluring Fae maidens ripe for the taking… though none are ever prosperous.

Though Arthur, as it seems, was brought before her for a specific reason whether she wants to rejoice in it or not.

So eventually, she instructs her gnomes and goblin accomplices to help carry Arthur from the boat and up the grassy hill, away from the drifting waters. They work, prepare, and by nightfall, Arthur has a tomb all to himself, even one fit for a prince. The grotto is eight stone-steps underground, but it’s kept out of any harm’s way, securely protected by the stiff walls of the earth. In the center of the grotto, Arthur shall rest eternally in a glass casket lined with gold. A single strong beam of light shines straight down through the opening and spills over Arthur’s still form, providing him some sort of halo.

“There,” she says, curtly. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

And naturally, Morgana has this urge to go revisit Arthur each day afterwards, just to make sure he is still where she's left him and it isn’t just all a mean trick.

She only gets so close to the casket before she stops, staring at him.

“I hate you,” she tells his light-kissed corpse. “I really do. Even this! Avalon is in my blood! It was supposed to be my freedom. My home. The home I never had as a child. Here, I can be myself and no one questions it, because they understand. And then… then you come floating in out of nowhere, disturbing my peace! Even in Death you mock me, brother. You had everything in Life and I was left out, hunting for mere scraps of pleasure wherever I could find them. And believe me, because of you, there weren’t many…”

Morgana has left the grotto fuming with a passion or on the verge of weeping more times than not. Gazing upon Arthur’s still form, she’s always torn internally by sorrow and fury in equal measure when she checks up on him. But she returns every day nonetheless, enthusiastic to explain her side of things, confessing her long list of sins and qualms to the glass casket.

“Just to make one thing clear, I never wished for your death. Not at first.” She angrily wipes at another stray tear. “Although, I knew it was going to happen. I dreamt about your downfall. And yes, I have said a lot of horrible things back then… and I don’t deny there’s a darkness inside me; but, that didn’t always mean I acted on those threats entirely. I was just angry for so long. And I was broken and burdened. Lied to over and over again, and betrayed more times than I could bear….”

Soon enough, Morgana actually finds herself close enough to touch the glass, and she does. She runs her fingers over the glittering surface, almost being able to gain a new sense of closure. 

“… I know you tried, brother. I know a part of you wanted me to come back to Camelot with you and stay at your side. You wanted to save my soul. Because I know you. And I knew that — that you’d see me as one of your failures. For what sort of husband or King would you really be if you couldn’t even help the one you called your ‘sister?’ But, Arthur, no matter how hard you prayed to your God to change me, I was never going to be that tame and agreeing sister you wanted as a boy. I have magic, and that… it complicates things for mortals like you. It always does, sooner or later. I was never going to be anything else than magic.”

Over time, the tangled vines of flowers climbing around the glassy curves encasing Arthur will change in shape or color.

And, Morgana suspects that it is either due to her individual mood, or it actually has something more to do with Avalon’s subtle change in aesthetic as a whole. Sometimes, she swears she can see Arthur’s corpse breathe, in and out once, twice, though surely that has to be her imagination. Regardless, she has been greeted by yellow roses before, or those exotic Eastern lilies. Now and then, there are dark thorns sticking up through the greenery, or something resembling Deadly Nightshade.

Other times— most of the time — she is welcomed back each morning by waves of lilacs and tulips. Flowers that symbolized forgiveness.

“I don’t even know how long it’s been…,” she confesses to Arthur that hour. “What day or hour it is in the Outside World, I mean. But I wonder… should I follow this feeling and see where it leads me?

Today’s black roses instantly fade to white before her eyes.

**ii.**

Merlin finally decides to leave Camelot in the dead of night. He flees before the noble lords of the Royal Court can corner him again, insisting that he should marry Gwen and wear Arthur’s crown in his place.

With a hundred coins in his pocket and for all intent and purposes, he’s gone and disappearing into the masses, only leaving a single letter addressed to Gwen, wishing her all the luck and happiness the world could ever offer a kind ruler like her.

He shrouds himself in shadows afterwards, posing as a common nobody and forever holding his secrets close. Whenever someone requests a name, he merely shrugs and claims he is called “Myddrin,” nothing more, nothing less. Thus, he remains quiet and polite during his travels, in his period of waiting. He doesn’t linger in one village for too long and no longer draws clear attention to himself by asking any questions he really shouldn’t.

Kilgarrah prods him on occasion — tries reaching out to him personally, through his thoughts and dreams, but Merlin cannot turn back. Not today. He’s come to think that perhaps, the Dragon’s advice has done more harm to his mind than good anyhow. He truly doesn’t mean to grow bitter towards the idea of returning to Camelot these days — but he does.

He does become a bit more jaded than what’s normal for him over the following year; and he drinks himself to sleep on the anniversary of Arthur’s mortal death. He doesn’t exactly know what to do right now or where to go. He isn’t a full Druid. And, he really, _really_ isn’t suited to be a proper Knight of the Round Table — let alone Camelot's new King and General either. In the end, he’s just Merlin, the Last Dragonlord, though even that hardly holds any weight to it now.

Occasionally, he swears the ghosts of his past are literally coming back to haunt him.

He spots the dark head of Morgana in the crowd once or twice, only to have her duck out of sight and the apparition is gone. He wonders why her? Why is his guilt manifesting into the shape of the Lady Morgana walking free and not a bleeding Arthur about to die? Strange.

Other times, he finds himself on the edge of a river, tossing stones into the running waters, too deep in thought. He misses his friends, yes, always. He misses his mother, and the comforts of sleeping under a strong castle roof next to a calming fire (when he didn’t have to worry about being rained on in the middle of the night). But then, those things tend to loop in full circle, leading to those other things he just wants to forget. Even for a while. Like the memory of Gaius… somehow, that sends a surge of mixed emotions through his veins. So by morning, as Merlin rings out his coat and hangs his satchel over a tree branch to dry out, he agrees with himself right then, no more of that. No more of listening to an old goat of a mentor. No more listening to a Great Dragon that’s only concerned about himself and his own future. For the first time in what feels like forever, Merlin decides that seeking his own council and following his intuition must come first. 

The next time he crosses paths with Lady Morgana’s ghost… is when he comes across a clearing, deeper within the western forests. Ravens flock around her like playful little children as she feeds them.

She looks far too real this evening. She appears to have a pulse and working limbs, and well, simply everything a living person does.

It dawns on him, gradually, while he draws nearer step by step; but the hard realization that she isn’t actually dead, still shakes his core at first. She’s there, reborn, risen from the ashes and turned into a newer and surer version of herself than from before. It’s in her eyes, jade green and sharp and unafraid.

“… Morgana?”

She turns, observing him briefly, casually, before refocusing on her birds. “Hello, Emrys. I thought that was you coming.” One of the ravens is now perching on her right shoulder, and another swiftly lands upon her outstretched hand filled with bread crusts and seeds, pecking away happily at her offering. 

“You’re alive.”

“You actually sound relieved,” she muses, still busy stroking the dark wings that keep fluttering around her. “I think many would say you should be disappointed.”

He pauses. “Better to stick with a familiar poison over one I don’t know.”

She smiles at his remark (maybe) when she goes to retrieve a small leathery pouch sitting lonely on a log nearby, and she throws it to him. “Then make yourself useful, as long as you are stuck.”

Merlin opens the pouch to find more scraps of food for the ravens circling about. “As you command, Priestess.”

He then listens to how she was recently chosen by Mother Morrigan herself in her nightly visions. He listens to how the Dark Goddess has given her another chance in Life — how the ravens led her here. In the end, he falls asleep sitting under the trees, exhausted by the shock and changes and his travels, all of it catching up to him quickly that night. And once the light of dawn stings his eyelids again, Merlin startles awake and looks over to where Morgana had sat herself ten paces from him. She’s gone without a trace. There is barely an imprint left in the grass, indicating she was ever there at all. He’s all alone again, sitting with cramped muscles and surrounded by a mess of inky black feathers.

**iii.**

Winter sets in. The nights are naturally longer and harsher than usual, and the moon hangs low in the sky.

Feeling the solid prick of magic lingering nearby, he finds Morgana again taking shelter in a series of caves along the edge of the mountains. She’s wrapped tightly in dull grey leather and black furs, a stark contrast to the white snows falling around them.

The heat from her campfire now bouncing off the cavern walls is all too inviting and he can’t resist it. He simply walks right up to it, crouching down beside her to warm his hands.

“May I conjure you some wine, Emrys?” she asks without glancing at him yet. “A grand feast, perhaps? Or a large feathered bed with silk pillows to take advantage of as well?”

“No,” Merlin replies calmly, too tired to argue, and far too tired to even dream up of such luxuries right now. “This is enough.”

“What are you doing out here this late anyway? Most of the villagers and hunters were forced to travel south, away from this cold.”

“I knew it was you. I felt it, so I came.”

She remains silent, knowing she doesn’t have to answer. He knows it’s mutual. She had felt him too, which is why she most likely lingered. The same sense of curiosity made her wait. She wanted to be found by him, maybe at least one last time. 

“I had a dream last night, a vision,” he suddenly adds, staring into the flames. “Gaius is dead.”

He hears her sigh. “I’m sorry.” She’s blunt, but just civil enough to please him. “I remember he meant a lot to you.”

He meets her gaze then, a thousand images flitting through his mind at once — of his mother’s concern. Uther’s anger. Gwen’s distrust. Kilgarrah’s dissatisfaction with him. And Gaius’ potential worry if he would’ve seen him willingly interacting with Morgana right now. Although soon, their faces all fade to black. “… Perhaps not as much anymore. But I rather not dwell on it tonight.”

**iv.**

Thirty years pass.

Merlin is becoming a serious writer and scholar, well-practiced in Welsh and French literature. He’s also growing in a beard now, brown and rich, to match his hair and making the blue of his Fae eyes stand out even more. He lives in Dublin for now.

Morgana, otherwise, is currently living on Avalon once again since she is the official chosen High Priestess and Head Disciple of the Morrigan’s Temple. She’s a formidable force nowadays (naturally), working so close and personally under the spiritual teachings of the Dark Goddess, divine mother of the very first witches to ever walk the earth.

It finally feels as though destiny is shifting towards something greater, a new chapter. Something grand. And yet… farewells are never easy, not for either of them. It’s always bittersweet when her yearly visits must end.

As the waves of the wild sea continue to rage against his knees, Morgana leans over the edge of her little fishing boat and kisses him, almost desperately, and for a moment he catches a glimpse of the softness in her she’s had buried deep, deep within all this time.

“I’m sorry,” he sputters, randomly, as if it’s all bubbling to the surface now without warning. He kisses her in return, to show her he means it. “I didn’t see it before. I couldn’t see your suffering before it was far too late. I… I just wanted to protect him, and… I think a part of me envied you. He was the only brother I’ve ever known, the brother I really never got to have. Sometimes I wished it was me instead of you, that I had your life because it seemed easier. I’m sorry for that. I understand that was wrong. I was wrong, Morgana. On a lot of things. And here you are, watching over him as he sleeps. You managed to protect him in ways I couldn't."

Tears burn in her eyes, fierce and alert, but she just seemed so much lighter as he said that. She’s at ease. Like a cross is instantly lifted off her aching shoulders. He can at least, give her that much now without worry.

“Come with me,” she urges him then, cradling his face. She returns the favor by gifting him with a proposal. A choice that is his and only his to make. “Come to Avalon, Merlin. We can both be free of our pasts once and for all and not hide anymore. We can _both_ watch over him.”

So, when he starts pushing her raft further out into the ocean’s current, he does not choose to fail her this time. He immediately pulls himself up and jumps onboard with her, dripping wet, but with a wide thankful smile on his lips. He doesn’t even feel any impulse to gaze back over the Irish coastline. Instead, his eyes are only on her and her amused, charmed expression as they sail ahead straight through the Parting Mists. 


End file.
